Scabs
by hyacinthian
Summary: Addison's always been notorious for scab picking. [AddisonMark]


A/N: First Grey's fic. First Addison/Mark fic. So...yeah. Sorry for OOCness and general badfic spikes.

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As a child, you're always told to leave your scabs alone. "Stop picking at your scabs, Addison." You remember your mother's scolding. But you could never stop. It was your dirty little secret. You'd pick at them and chip at them because you were curious, and that was what you did. And now you're sitting here, in the middle of Joe's bar, with several units of alcohol consumed, and you've realized that you haven't given up on the scab picking at all. "Not at all," you mumble as you down another drink. It's just moved from the physical to the emotional.

The night blazes by in a whirl of thoughts and blurry people and slurred voices. You think that Joe's started replacing the drinks you've ordered with water, but you can't tell anymore. You're just grateful for any kind of placebo. "Pla-ce-bo." You pronounce the word slowly, and there's a girlish giggle at the end that makes you question your age and emotional maturity. Dr. Bailey, or at least the blurred mass that looks remotely like Dr. Bailey, quirks an eyebrow and examines you.

"Dr. Shepherd, are you okay?" And it sounds like the hood, but it doesn't. Just like you've seen the hood, but not really. So you bite down on your tongue to keep from saying something offensive and stupid when it hits you.

Dr. Shepherd.

No, you're not Dr. Shepherd anymore. In fact, when he left you, that was when it should have ended. But just like the inquisitive seven-year-old you used to be, you flew out to Seattle to keep picking at the scab. Because now there's Meredith and Derek and you don't know where Addison fits into these pieces. But Mark is here. And it's the four of you and it's even more complicated and you're so lost. You laugh again, and you see the arch of the Bailey eyebrow. You take another sip of the drink.

"I'm lost." You say it so simply, the words tumbling from your tongue like tumbleweeds in a stereotypical western. You want to have a showdown. But the battle's lost. Meredith won Derek, and you're sitting here, wasting away your liver. "The showdown's over and I lost."

You aren't sure how coherent you are, but you hope that's what comes from your mouth. Or maybe you've been talking this whole time. You're not quite sure. And you're not quite sure when he got here either. He sits next to you, and does that smirking thing that he does.

"Well," you say with flourish. "If it isn't Dr. McSteamy walkin' in here." He quirks an eyebrow too, and you wonder if it's natural behavior, or just your behavior when you're drunk.

"Dr. McSteamy?" There's a bit of a lilt in his voice that makes you think he's laughing at you.

You squint at him, and try to be serious. "I hear that's what the ladies call ya."

"You're drunk, Addison."

"And you're sober, Mark." She laughs, and he looks lost. But she's lost too. She's just acting like she has a map.

"Come on, Addison," he says, gently, tugging her arm. "Let's get you home." But she's unsteady and she's trying to fight him off.

"No," she mutters. "No. You don't get to do this."

"Do what?"

"You don't get to play the caring, charming guy just so I can fall over all you, and then wake up with a headache."

"I'm sure you won't fall over all me," he replies, and you think you might have made a mistake. He tries to tug you to your feet again, but physics is obviously (a male) not on your side when you fall against him, your face against his chest. It's then when the scent attacks you, and you refuse to admit that he smells really, really good.

But you don't have to, because your feet are already pushing themselves up to prop you on your toes, and your lips are already brushing against his.

In the cab, his lips are bruising and gentle all at once, and if you could remember the definition of oxymoron, you're sure it would apply somehow. You get to his place (or your place, or a hotel room) and you're fumbling because he's smooth and charming and sober, and you're embarrassingly not.

He brushes against you, and you arch against his touch, and all this feels strangely real. His kisses seem to leave imprints on your skin, and you feel like you've never tasted anything so sweet and different, and you want to just never live life again.

You wake up in the morning with a pounding head and sore muscles, and you can't seem to recall anything. But the smell of sex is there, and you're there, and he's there, and you're both naked, so that seems to be the thing to assume. You try to move, but his limbs, tangled with yours, inhibit you. You raise your head a little, your mussed red hair all tangled, to survey the scene. Maybe this is one scab you'll leave alone.


End file.
